


The Boy in the Box

by 1bad_joke



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, Infidelity, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Het Sex, Mild Blood, Obsession, Older Jared, Peep Show - Freeform, Possessive Behavior, Pretty Jensen, Voyeurism, Younger Jensen, mentions of self harm, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 19:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1bad_joke/pseuds/1bad_joke
Summary: Jared tells himself every time will be the last.The last time he sees the boy in the box.





	

Jared tells himself every time that this time will be the last.

The last time he will see the boy in the box.

But that's a lie he likes to tell himself, because the boy is really a boy, couldn't be older than eighteen or twenty, something just over legal. And the box is caged in by dirty, narrow booths with curtains that keep them dark until you feed in carefully straightened bills and they reveal bared skin and glass so clean you almost feel like you can touch. 

But you can never ever touch.

The cruelest temptation and his safest addiction, because on the drive home he's convinced it's the last time and he kisses his wife on the cheek like it's okay because he never ever touches.

But oh... when that curtain draws and he's greeted by cinnamon freckles on alabaster skin, oh how he wishes he _could_.

The very first time was a five dollar curiosity. 

A random stop at a random “bookstore” with neon “XXX”s in the blacked out windows after another mind-numbing day at the office. Halfhearted displays of porn, vibrators, and pocket pussies. The lubes either plain or synthetic cherry. The guy at the counter didn't bother to make a sale, bored eyes knowing as they scanned his 6'4 suit like they knew the reason he was there. 

Unsure to begin with and ready to make an about face, his attention caught on the obvious signs of foot traffic marking a trail across the grimy tile to a beaded entryway. With gangbang dvds staring him in the face, what could possibly need to be hidden? He knew he should probably turn and go, dinner would be ready soon, but his polished shoes carried him down the blackened path. 

The beads were an absolute tacky cliché, yet the gloomy hall of evenly spaced doors splayed before him with traffic signal lights fixed above them were of interest.

He'd seen movies involving these sorts of places; the normal kind that depicts scum and bad things and needs for Jesus. He wasn't that guy, but out of the five doors staring him in the face -two already in red- his hand was turning a knob lit green. His elbows knocked around all four walls of the tiny space; in retrospect one having to be the window. 

To this day he wonders if the thump was heard on the other side and drown me green eyes waited for him, kept checking to see. Maybe each and every time after that first time. Did they know everything would change?

The booth was a sardine can joke for his large frame with a bench that folded his legs close and a lube machine that dug into his left shoulder. The roll of paper towels placed on top felt like an after thought, and Jared cringed for his poor suit. The money slot at his shin glowed with a sticker demanding fives, tens, and twenties. 

One advanced yoga pose later to retrieve his wallet, the five disappeared.

Eventually he would learn to have the money crisp and ready so the machine wouldn't fight him, whir and spit his bill back, frustration blistering inside him like fiery barbs. Addict talk.

Later he would learn, but back then he sat in the dark wondering what was to happen until he heard a click. That mechanical click would make him Pavlov's dog, because who could have guessed that a mere five dollars bought you five minutes of a real life angel.

Pale skin stretched over a bird bone back. Shoulder blades so stark feathered wings could burst through at any moment. The serpent in the garden in place of an undulating spine led Jared's gaze down to a perfect ass wrapped in a present of baby pink silk. Those bowed legs had to be a gift from God made to be wrapped around Jared's hips, of this he was sure. 

Once that lithe body twisted around slow, the sad sinner in that filthy booth was lost.

A spotlight cast shadows across a lean torso and from downcast eyes mile long lashes stretched black on smooth cheeks. 

A face crafted from heaven with a mouth forged for sin.

White noise filled Jared's head as he leaned closer and his quick breaths fogged the glass. Fingers that had been digging knives into his lap released their hold to wipe frantically at his mess. He had to see. He had to keep watching. Had to--

His commotion attracted the attention of crystalline green, a mere glimpse of them between his frozen fingers before another click and the curtain fell, throwing him in darkness with only the sound of his harsh panting. He was falling out of that too humid closet and out the shop's door like a shot, safe in his car with shaking hands gripping the steering wheel to avoid the obvious bulge in his slacks. Pulse hammering. The back of his eyelids burned with the celestial images.

That night when he flipped his wife over in their bed and fucked her from behind, he came to thoughts of a freckled back and short, sandy blond hair tangled in his fists. He had fallen asleep resolute he would never go back.

And so the lie began, because not more than two days later he was pulling into the shop's mostly deserted parking lot on his lunch break of all times.

Another five dollars later and he was gone forever. 

Fives progressed to frequent stops at the ATM, and over long lunches became any excuse to get out of the house: Out to the store for milk, out to pick up the dry cleaning, or to fix imaginary car problems at the mechanic. Occasions so random that at times that it never really occurred to him the boy couldn't always be in the box and his money was wasted on a busty blonde who bounced around, and his disappointment was as palpable on his tongue as much as the secondhand embarrassment of watching her struggle to lick her own pierced barbell nipples.

A gaudy, plastic fantasy.

His boy is the real artist. From bras cupping barely there tits and too short pleated skirts and flashes of little girl cotton panties -pink bows and lace trim- to scoop neck t-shirts hanging off a bony shoulder with boy jeans sliding down hipbones so sharp Jared wants to cut his tongue open on them. His kisses staining that perfect flesh canvas red-red-red. 

_Mine-mine-mine._

Sad green eyes always finding him through the glass, connecting, like Jared's special. Perfect. That every move, every sultry bat of sooty lashes was a calculated performance to drive him wild. He couldn't remember anyone ever looking at him like that.

It's a wonder he hasn't busted through the glass yet, he sometimes thinks idly. The constant tingle in his fingers urging him to reach out and touch and take. The tingling morphing into such a burning he wants to gnaw off the tips into bone peaking nubs. But it's only a matter of seconds the tingling travels through to his rough palms all over down and up up to his chapped raw lips. It's futile. It consumes him whole.

No, he can never ever touch.

On one memorable occasion particles of wrist flick blush hung in the air. A rickety vanity with Hollywood bulbs illuminated his angel carefully dabbing on whore red to his cupid's bow lips. Emerald eyes lined heavy with kohl twinkled as fingers plucked at the thin straps of oil spill onyx hanging off his hunger-pain frame. A slash of a smile. Jared nearly strangled his dick when the boy's tongue dragged across his palm, smearing his painted mouth, and reached his hand down between his legs.

Afterward Jared rushed to the store and bought his wife's anniversary gift early. He was shooting off on her heaving stomach swathed in black silk hours later. Red lipstick stained along his neck and jaw.

He could never properly fuck his wife again after that. 

Long dark hair became close-cropped blond. A flat chest with tiny pink nipples held more appeal than ample breasts. Hell, the tantalizing shadow between skinny thighs had him salivating instead of the sight of an available cunt he could touch. Weeks of cinnamon dusted, viridian dreams woke him up with sticky boxers like a damn teenager and his wife's pinched face turning away from him.

This wasn't a big gay epiphany for him. Jared had simply always been drawn to pretty things. He knew this ever since he was six and accidentally knocked over grandma's nice crystal vase and it had shattered in a brilliant arc across the floor, its fragments catching the afternoon sunshine just right. Its violent kaleidoscope luring him closer and closer until his chubby fingers were sliced to ribbons drip dropping onto those pretty, pretty colors until grandma had snatched his hand away.

_No, no, you must never ever touch._

_You don't touch broken glass. It'll hurt you._

His tears didn't come when the disinfectant stung and cleaned the blood away, nor when his hands throbbed in time with his heavy heart. They came when the rainbow glass was swept away and dumped in the trash. Gone. 

See, that's what you're supposed to do with broken things. They're not meant to be kept.

Jared always had a hard time believing that. Faint scars still interrupted the whirls of his fingerprints.

It's been months now and he's still telling himself the lie, clinging to it morelike. Visits to see his boy grow to nearly every day, and the days he's unable to make the trip he's twitchy and testy and his jaw aches from its ever constant clench until it cracks open to snap at anyone in his vicinity, from his coworkers to strangers to his own wife. The nearest relief is the next time he enters the shop with several twenties in hand and his path clear to those ghastly curtains shielding the world's best kept secret treasure, only known by the bored cashier and the faceless red lit doors and Jared.

He's been lucky so far, never coming across anyone else with his secret. Those other locked booths a vague understanding others were watching his show exist as an underlying itch in his brain. He tolerates it, never having to deal with it.

Today... today is not a lucky day.

He was late to work thanks to a passive aggressive morning with his wife that quickly evolved into a screaming match. He's so distant. He's not present anymore. _I thought we were going to try for kids soon. Is it me?_ Walking into the office a half hour late was a prime excuse for the boss to corner him into overtime, so his special lunch break was lost to a computer screen filled with meaningless numbers. 

Suffice to say when he storms into the shop later than his work week usual and praying his angel is still in his box, he stumbles, taken aback that the cashier isn't alone. He quickly shakes it off. Whatever. It's a business; the guy has to do more than play on his phone, but Jared stops short when he gets halfway to his refuge upon hearing their conversation.

“C'mon, man, I'm sure we can work out some sorta deal. I just want an hour with the kid. Ya can't tell me he's not sellin' an ass like that.”

“Sorry, he's just not into that. Believe me, I've tried,” the cashier sighs in lament, the first time Jared's heard him speak in all these months. “'s skittish for a slut.”

“Just get me back there. I'll bend him over and have him screaming.”

The exchange is only a handful of seconds, but it feels like Jared has been rooted to his spot for ages, the rage bubbling under the surface throughout the day bursting forth to crimson wash his vision. 

His boy is sacred. He's Jared's. How fucking dare they talk about him like that. Like they have any right. Like they could--

It happens too fast. One moment he's inside and the next he's standing on wobbly legs outside his car staring unseeingly at a reflection it's too dark to comprehend, face aching and the taste of iron in his mouth. His knuckles are hot and swollen. Autopilot has him reaching into his pocket, brushing against unspent money, and poising his keys at the door lock. His breathing rattles in his chest, exhalations stopping short when it hurts too much. He finally moves when passing flashes of blue and red dominate his watery vision. 

He's gotta go. He's gotta get out of here away from--

_A busted face and blood that doesn't belong to him drying sticky on his hands._

If the cashier called the cops, he's gotta leave--

_Glowing skin and plump lips._

A wrecked whimper sounds in the small cavern of his car. Icy loss flushing out the white hot fury running through his veins leaving behind a desolate shell. His brain stalling. They thought they could touch him. They had no right- no right to--

He can't go back. 

**Banned**. He's been banned. 

This is the last time... 

He doesn't even know the boy's name.

That night he slowly made it home to his wife claiming he survived an attempted mugging and dutifully sat still as she cleaned him up, all the while resolving himself to leaving behind his boy in the box. He went to work and came home on time, and slowly his bank account was starting to recover. Even his wife had sensed a change and was starting to warm up to him, though he couldn't yet bring himself to touch her in any intimate way. The smallest peck on the cheek felt wrong. Felt dirty as laughable as that is. 

Paying for everything with his credit card instead of carrying cash felt like part of a twelve step program.

He couldn't sleep, could hardly eat, constantly wondering what did his boy wear today? Did he even perform today? Did he miss Jared just as much he misses him? He has to. He has to feel Jared's absence just as keenly as Jared does. This ever growing need. This... _pit_. 

He can't go on living like this, everything so dull and colorless. It feels like dying. Laying cold next to his wife at night, nothing sounded more wonderful than a relapse. He was banned from entering the shop, but that isn't going to stop him. He could feel it in his bones that this is greater than everything else in his life. Six years old and wanting nothing more than to cut himself open on broken glass.

Jared's not crazy. He's not. He tried. He honestly tried to stay away -where the lie became truth- but here he is freshly shaven, probably too overdressed to just sit in his car for this many hours on end, and with perhaps a touch too much of his good cologne permeating the car's interior. His fingers drum on the steering wheel, focus trained on the alley behind the strip mall. His back aching and long legs falling asleep. He'd been parked beside this dumpster since this morning, watching, waiting, and by now the sun was starting to set. He'd have to leave soon. Go home to his wife and use another vacation day from work and maybe try again tomorrow. Don't be stupid, it isn't a matter of _maybe_. He'll be back tomorrow. He'll keep trying until--

 _Oh_. Oh God.

Time seems to stop as air catches in his lungs. 

There he is. Right there.

Fuck if his boy doesn't look even more breathtaking in the warm glow of dusk, though it's the strangest -almost uncomfortable- feeling of seeing him presented with no curtain and outside of his box. Jared is frozen, transfixed by such beauty smothered by an overlarge hoodie and ratty jeans. 

He's real, and he's **right there**.

Jared doesn't wait a second longer. It's been too long. He's tripping out of his car, belatedly snatching up the bouquet of roses he bought earlier pink-cheeked and anxious. He can feel that blush returning as he moves with bounding steps to his target momentarily distracted kneeling down and tying his shoe, and suddenly he's standing over him, towering really. His nerves are buzzing, and the huge smile stretching his face can't be helped. 

“Hi,” he breathes, weak like he'd been running miles.

Worn laces knotted around delicate fingers halt their movements. Startled green snap up and travel upwards more and more and widen once they land on Jared, and Jared can feel his whole body flush. His boy's head moves just the tiniest bit to gulp.

“Here.” He thrusts the bouquet forward, its petals slightly wilted.

Slowly, painfully slow, the boy rises to his full height which Jared notices is only a few inches shorter than him. He hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder, gaze flickering back and forth between Jared and the flowers before eventually settling on Jared himself. Another heavy gulp. He doesn't make a move to take his gift.

The bouquet lowers awkwardly to his side, and the silence drags.

“I'm Jared.”

“... Je- Jensen.” His voice is soft but deeper than Jared imagined. Still good. Still wonderful.

“Wow, that's uh, that's a cool name. Jensen.” An angel's. So strange yet perfect. It tastes sublime on his tongue. Jared wants to get it tattooed over his heart.

He doesn't realize he's staring - _damn, those freckles_ \- until his boy, Jensen, clears his throat and shuffles. 

“Sorry,” Jared exhales. “You're just so... wow. It's different, but better, way better.” He's quick to reassure when an adorably confused expression crosses Jensen's face.

“Do I know you?”

The upturned corners of Jared's mouth sag just the tiniest bit. “Of course, from--” He nods towards the backdoor of the shop. It should be obvious. Maybe he doesn't recognize Jared because it was dark? 

Emerald doe eyes widen enough to see their whites.

A terrible thought has the warm swell in Jared's chest shrinking.

“... Don't you remember me?”

“I--... I'm sorry but no, I don't know you,” Jensen replies as he eases back a step. 

Jared hardly hears him through the sudden ringing in his ears. He feels like he's been punched. His heart sinking to his stomach with sick heavy plops. 

No, that- that can't be right. He's lying. He has to know. He has to.

He's not so much pacing as every aborted step keeps in time with the darkening whirlwind of his thoughts. Every palpable caress of eyes and coy grins aimed just at him. “All those times-- you know me. You looked at me. You know me. Why-- why are you pretending not to?” Fist wrenching his long hair as he comes to a stop. 

Jensen's several feet away now. The purposeful distance stabbing anew. His skinny chest is rising and falling rapidly under the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. A white knuckle grip on the strap hanging on his shoulder. A crystal sheen reflects wetly in the dimming light as his gaze fails to rise higher than the crushed stems in Jared's grasp.

“Th-there's a light that switches on whenever--- I never know who's... I'm sorry”

“But you were looking at me every single time, I know it.” He lunges closer, adamant, stopping short when his boy shrinks back. Realization has his shoulders slumping. “You're scared of me.”

Trembling, Jensen makes to move away, giving Jared a wide berth. 

Jared springs forward and long arms block Jensen from leaving. _Not yet. Please don't leave me yet._ Desperation eclipses all sense. “Nonononono,” he babbles, “Don't be scared of me. I lo--”

“Let me go!” Jensen thrashes like a cornered animal. A first touch Jared's been dreaming of is a swinging arm and a burning scratch on his forearm. Mangled flowers rain to the ground around their struggle, Jared shushing and his heart breaking as Jensen flails in his grip on the brink of panic, breaths coming so fast his protests are nothing more than broken gasps. Wet green spills over down the color high on his cheeks, and Jared can't help but think his boy looks even more stunning. 

Immersed in his awe, Jensen breaks free with a wild punch clipping Jared's jaw. Teeth knock together and slick red. 

This is wrong. It's all wrong. Why is Jensen acting like this? Ruining this for Jared, for them?

Jared's reach just barely snags his boy's wrist, but Jensen staggers and trips on his untied shoelaces and is falling and falling.

The thud of Jensen's head is loud on the asphalt. Too loud. He isn't moving. 

Jared's voice is reed thin. “Jensen?”

Nothing. Amongst the scatter of rose petals, a slow seeping of scarlet spreads.

His legs buckle under him, and he scrambles closer, hands hovering over his boy, his angel, afraid to touch.

_See what happens when you touch._

Feverish eyes almost miss it -it's barely noticeable- but there it is. Tears sting as he heaves a breath in relief. Jensen's breathing. His chest is rising.

“Okayokayokay,” Jared mutters, shoving his hair back from his face as he looks around. Nighttime is setting in, and no one seems to be around. He hesitates for a second before he scoops up his boy into his arms, marveling over the heat bleeding through layers of clothes and through to his skin. The side of Jensen's head is sticky with blood. Jared's neck cranes to trace the point of his nose along the crown of golden blond, breathing in the scent of sweat and sandalwood and iron. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, shuddering and squeezing that light weight closer to the his chest, his dick stirring in his pants.

A small, hurt sound penetrates the fog and brings him back down to earth. 

“Shh, shhh, I've got you.” Cradling the limp boy, he moves to his car and maneuvers the passenger door open and carefully places his boy inside and buckles him in. Sprawled limbs are gingerly arranged into a comfortable repose. Jared crouches just beside him, enamored with the graceful sweep of lashes and the peaceful breaths of a slack perfect pink mouth. His scarred fingertips hover but reluctantly draw away. 

“It's okay. This didn't go as I hoped it would, but I don't blame you. It's okay, I'm not letting you go.”

He closes the door quietly and goes back to fetch Jensen's bag. He stops short in front of the car, taken aback by the view of his sleeping boy out of his box through his windshield looking so beautiful and right in Jared's front seat. His gaze glosses over the dark streak staining the headrest where Jensen's head has lolled to the side. Jared will fix that. He'll make his boy as good as new. He can keep Jensen. They'll be so happy together.

He'll never have to tell himself the lie again.

**Author's Note:**

> My first time posting, so if I do anything wrong, sorry! I'm still learning. Also first time writing this pairing. Thoughts are truly appreciated! I'm hoping to add more to this. I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
